Ashes of the Tyrant

by Erin M. Evans

  I love you too, he nearly said. He bit down hard on his tongue. Don’t come here. Stay where you are. Stay away from the Zhentarim. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ll find you. The spell dissolved in the same icy crackle and Dahl cursed and cursed and cursed.

  A shadow fell across the rocks and Dahl turned, expecting to find Xulfaril creeping up on him. But a woman he’d never seen before stood at the cliff’s edge.

  No, not just a woman. A devil. A cambion like Lorcan. A silver gown trailed off her narrow shoulders into the muddy rocks, and her shaven scalp was tattooed with matching silver figures. Her wings curved around her, a niche for a dark idol.

  Dahl drew his sword as he stood.

  “Well met,” the devil said. “My apologies for eavesdropping.”

  “Lorcan could have come himself,” Dahl asked. If the letter had broken their deal, well at least that was settled, he told himself, even though his pulse was racing. “Where is he?”

  “I am an agent of nothing but my own desires.” She smiled at him in an unbroken way that made Dahl grip his sword all the more firmly. “And what I desire requires assistance. You have a deal with Lorcan. A deal you might prefer to be free of?”

  Dahl took a step toward the clearing. “I’ve had my fill of Hellish deals, thanks.”

  “Better to go the rest of your days without once speaking to your beloved?” She clucked her tongue. “No. That’s not it. You think you can break the deal, don’t you? You think you’re clever enough to find a path around it.”

  Dahl said nothing, and her smile grew. “Let me guess: you have a plan. You’ve probably worked out a way to return to her—that’s not too difficult if you’re determined—and you think given that you’ll surely be able to untangle the deal.” She shook her head. “You’re out of your depth, Dahl Peredur.”

  “Who are you?”

  “An interested party,” she said. “What if I said I could fix this for you? I could take control of the deal, revise the terms, and make certain you’re reunited with Farideh.”

  Dahl didn’t lower his sword. “I’d say the price is probably too high.”

  “But you would want to hear it, wouldn’t you?”

  Oghma, Mystra, and Lost Deneir, he did. Some part of him shouted that it might be enough, it might be fair. Who knew what this woman wanted, what she had against Lorcan? Maybe it was about harming him, not about Dahl or Farideh at all?

  “What do you want?”

  She smiled. “Your firstborn child.”

  Dahl’s blood turned cold. “I don’t have any children.”

  “Not yet,” the woman said. “Let us say you’d be required to perform certain tasks once I have the deal in hand.”

  “That’s monstrous.”

  She laughed. “You’re a very innocent little boy, aren’t you? All I’m asking you to do is bed your brightbird—are you going to pretend you weren’t going to do that already? The child wouldn’t be harmed. The child wouldn’t even have to leave your sight. But she’d be mine.”

  For a moment, Dahl turned the offer in his head, boggling at the woman’s insistence that it was nothing, a trifle, a reasonable act. Just as Lorcan had spoken of giving up the right to speak to Farideh—he’d live without it, the alternative was worth the price, no one could possibly turn this down. That was how they caught you, Dahl thought.

  But what this woman was suggesting moved beyond that, and a rage at all the Nine Hells boiled up in him.

  “Stlarn off,” Dahl said. “I’m not making any shitting deal with a shitting devil, regardless of how ‘reasonable’ it is, when you’re talking about creating a child for the sole purpose of damning it—behind Farideh’s back no less. And yes, I said that the way I did for a reason—because I am clever. I am not out of my depth yet. Take your deal back to the Hells.”

  “It’s not going to get cheaper,” she said. “Think about it.”

  “I’ve thought,” Dahl said. “I don’t want it.”

  “Very well,” she said. She never stopped smiling at him as she held up one ringed hand. “It’s not as if I don’t have options.”

  Dahl started to shout—what was that supposed to mean? Had he put Farideh in danger? But the woman twisted the ring on her thumb and she vanished out of existence.

  Oghma’s bloody papercuts, Dahl thought, letting his sword drop. That small part of him screamed that he’d lost a chance, however monstrous it had been, and the very thought of any of it made him sick. He grabbed the waterskin, hardly feeling the splash of the chilly water. His hands shook. There had to be an answer. A better answer than this.

  “Well, well, Harper.” Xulfaril stood at the edge of the boulders, a smile threatening her thin mouth. “Looks like you might have more to offer than rituals after all.”

  “I don’t know what you think you saw—” Dahl began.

  “Please,” Xulfaril said. “Don’t insult my intelligence and I won’t insult yours. Do the Harpers know you’re dealing with the Nine Hells?”

  “Are you asking if you need to tell them?”

  Xulfaril chuckled once. “I don’t intend to tell the Shepherd and his flock anything. Does your family know? I assume the creature was speaking of your other little secret. The tiefling.” She smiled. “You’ve been awfully skilled at hiding such a lot of things.”

  Dahl swallowed against his suddenly dry throat. “What do you want?”

  “Is that what you think we’re doing? Goodman, let me assure you—while I wouldn’t hesitate to extort you given the right circumstances, we are not the Harpers. Your indiscretions are your own business, so long as they do not impede our business. No, I came to offer you an opportunity.”

  There it was. “How is that different?”

  The wizard smiled. “I need historians. You’ve worked with Mira before, she says. She’s coy about details—not exactly what you’d call easy to work with. I can’t imagine she’ll be much easier now she knows where your allegiances are.”

  Relief flooded him. They weren’t questioning Mira’s cover—yet. “You’ll hear the same from my side about me.”

  “Not the same,” Xulfaril said. “You dislike unnecessary conflict. You’ll volunteer yourself to make certain your grandmother survives. You’ll try and stop my snake handler from wasting resources. I don’t doubt that if, say, Grathson were to try and even the slate with your brother for that punch he got in, you’d have your sword out and ready. And while you’ll keep your allegiances secret, you’re not going to hold things back just because it suits you—obviously you told your brothers the truth, because you thought they needed to hear it. I think you have a better sense, perhaps, of what’s important. What the rest of us need to know.”

  “Like why you might be traveling to the Underdark?”

  Xulfaril’s single eye searched his face a moment. “See? Clever. And since you aren’t fond of unnecessary conflict, I think you’ll keep in mind what might lie in the Underdark is no worse than what slinks out of the Nine Hells. And that I still have Grathson’s leash in hand—as much as anyone can. Be wise about the rumors you spread.” She turned, unperturbed. “My superiors have a very long list of artifacts they want, and quickly. What do you know about giants?”

  “Enough,” Dahl said slowly. What did the Zhentarim want with giant artifacts? “Depends on what exactly we’re looking for.”

  “And we can get to that once we’ve found the Master’s Library.” She smiled back at him, and it made Dahl want to look away. “Welcome to my team.”

  DON’T PANIC, ILSTAN Nyaril told himself, staring at the crisscross of iron bars, the single guard in the room beyond. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic …

  … the demons of the Abyss cannot be said to be bold, Azuth, the Lord of Spells, murmured in Ilstan’s thoughts. He’d been too long from another caster, Ilstan dimly realized, too long from sharing the gifts of the Chosen of Azuth. The voice of the god grew stronger and stronger, and Ilstan’s headache built and built.

  Don’t
panic. Don’t panic. What should I do, Lord?

  … To be bold, the voice went on, implies comprehension of what meekness is. They are force. They are chaos. They are will and hunger embodied …

  And the devils of the Hells, Ilstan responded in his own thoughts, are their match in every way, only worse. The creature that attacked might have been either—and with the Chosen of Asmodeus appearing right after, how could it be anything but a devil?

  … They are the wolves baying at the edges of the village. They are the wolves who cull the sheep … And the devils are the shepherds … but what difference does that make to the lamb, in the end?

  What was her plan? Ilstan thought frantically. He began to pace. What was she going to do, and who was going to help her, thinking she was nothing to be frightened of, no one to mistrust? Even when Farideh had appeared on the stairs, Ilstan’s first thought had been gladness. Reinforcements. She had a way of making you think she was on your side, after all.

  But was it her? Ilstan wondered. She wasn’t there when the fiend was feeding—or was that a trick to make her seem innocent?

  She blocked you, he thought. But she didn’t try to harm you. She could have, and who would have thought her wrong? Him, covered in the dragonborn’s blood. Her, wounded by his missiles. A perfect opportunity, if one were bold enough …

  The door opened a moment later or an eternity later. Time was rushing past him at points, crawling over him like ants on a corpse at others. He risked a look up and saw Farideh and Kallan the Traitor enter.

  … There is treachery and there is treachery … the tale of the unfaithful servant tells us …

  “I am faithful,” Ilstan murmured, holding Farideh’s mismatched gaze. “I am faithful. I am faithful.”

  “Kallan, akison?” the guard said, each word needling its way into Ilstan’s mind. He clasped the Traitor’s forearm. “Wushzarath sathi?”

  “Sjath vethkeshka,” Kallan replied. He pointed at Farideh. “Irth Verthisathurgiesh Farideh.”

  The guard’s pierced brow rose higher. “Thyr irth?”

  “Ariverthisathurgiesh.” Kallan shrugged. “Irth ir-okhuir tuorth. Irth renthizhath Munthrarechi. Akison?” The Draconic itched through Ilstan’s brain like worms crawling around his skull. He covered his ears.

  Farideh stood right up against the bars, peering at him, while the lines of magic shivered over her, threatening to expose what she was at her core. “Ilstan? Can you understand me?”

  “Do you know where you are?” Kallan asked.

  Ilstan glared at the sellsword, and Kallan took a step back. “I know where I am, O Traitorous One. I know where I am and I know who put me here.”

  “Karshoj,” Kallan spat. The guard rattled off some more Draconic, and Kallan replied. “Fari, I don’t know what you’re going to do. He’s not well.”

  “But I think I know why,” she said. The magic across her buckled and puckered, pulling up her skin to reveal the terrible creature beneath, a fiend of unparalleled cruelty and avarice … which twisted and melted to show a kind and peaceful young woman, the face of an angel.

  … Illusion is deception … illusion can be the only way to speak the truth … We cannot trust our eyes, so trust the mind, the heart, the soul …

  “Ilstan,” she said again. Her features flickered from girl to fiend, from angel to devil. Ilstan covered his eyes, unable to bear the distortion. “Lord of Spells, forgive me, I am too weak, I am too weak.”

  “He gets like this,” Kallan said. “He needs a wizard.”

  Farideh blew out a breath. “Well, then I’ll have to do it. Zhvori ir. Ir tuorth arcanish. Um, lefanthish. Ya lefanthish. Deshkrouth?”

  The guard waved a hand. “Thrik. Thrik. Ghorosh ir Verthisathurgiesh ir svent-sinti!”

  “What?” Farideh cried. “Who?”

  “Thrikominaki Mehen.” The guard shifted. “I did not see it,” he added in Common that rolled like stones from his mouth. “It’s why Adjudicator Sirrush moved him here.”

  You should always engage a fiend directly, the voice said. Ilstan stopped. The Lord of Spells had seldom been so clear, so certain. So mellifluous …

  Who else can stop it, the voice crooned, if not you, o Chosen One? You have the strength, the wherewithal … You just have to free yourself …

  Something pulled on Ilstan’s thoughts, toward the iron bars. Toward the spaces between. Toward Farideh.

  Even iron melts, the voice said, if it’s hot enough …

  The fireball built in Ilstan’s hands, kindled by magic he hardly sensed he was drawing. Bigger, hotter, enough to melt the bars and end the guard. He had to escape—one death was a sacrifice.

  The dragonborn guard shouted at him in Draconic, one hand on his weapon. Farideh turned, eyes widening.

  Straight on, my lad, the voice said. It’s what must be done.

  Bigger … hotter …

  “Ilstan! Don’t!” Farideh shouted. Her voice seemed to snap the tugging line upon his thoughts, his headache vanishing and leaving Ilstan cold and dizzy. Something shoved him in the side, knocked him off balance. The fireball peeled itself off his hands as he stumbled, streaking toward the door of the prison.

  The space between the prison’s bars crackled as the fire hit, and the orb ricocheted off at an angle, crashing against the stone wall. The heat of it scorched Ilstan’s skin, sizzled the ends of his hair as he threw himself to the floor.

  He heard Farideh shouting in Draconic as well, heard the door open. “Hey,” she said. “Are you burned? Are you all right?”

  “Don’t touch me!” Ilstan said. But suddenly his skin was a sheet of pain as his nerves woke again to the burns. “My lord! My lord!” he screamed, as if his cries could pierce the prison of the Nine Hells. He could not be alone. He could not be—

  “Here,” a man’s voice said. And then he was choking on a syrup that tasted of bitterness and anise, wintergreen and old wine. The screaming edges of his body quieted. Kallan stood over him, the guard’s spear in one hand, the instrument of Ilstan’s failure.

  A feeling like a sigh rolled through his thoughts.

  … One must never assume, the voice went on, as if nothing had happened, that a demon may be kept in hand. One binds them as one binds the gale …

  Ilstan wept. Azuth remained.

  “The bars are protected against the dragonborn’s breath,” Farideh told him. “That fireball would have turned right back on you.”

  “No,” Ilstan said. He struggled to sit, but the potion made his movements sluggish, his muscles weak. “Azuth wouldn’t have let it. He would have destroyed my prison.” You must cast, he told himself. You must end her. “You distracted me.”

  “Did Azuth tell you to do that?” she demanded. “Does he talk to you?”

  Ilstan sneered. “You cannot trick me.”

  “Did he tell you to melt the bars?”

  Ilstan shook his head weakly. His vision was swimming—they’d drugged them, the beasts! He pulled at the Weave, magic crackling into his form “You cannot trick me, devil-child.”

  “Listen to me!” she shouted. “I think … I think we can help one another. I think you’re already being tricked.”

  “You cannot trick me,” Ilstan said again, before he passed out of consciousness

  FARIDEH STEPPED ASIDE as two Adjudicators moved Ilstan’s slack body to a bench, the pieces of the mystery not set together, not ready to knit into something whole and true. She sat perfectly still, as if moving might scatter her thoughts … or give her the answers she was afraid to have. Ilstan’s arm drooped, dangling off the bench, displaying ugly rows of runes in thick thread along his sleeve.

  Find a wizard, the embroidered words read. Give the magic to another caster.

  Find Farideh.

  Rescue the Lord of Spells.

  End the Lady of Black Magic.

  Farideh swallowed hard. He wants you dead, she thought. He thinks you’re the hand of Asmodeus.

  Asmodeus, who burned with the sigil of Azuth
.

  Asmodeus, who wasn’t a god until the same year when Azuth stopped speaking to his followers.

  Azuth, who drove Ilstan mad.

  Who told him to cast a fireball at a shield of magic that would turn it right back at him and burn him alive.

  Who had told Ilstan to kill her.

  She read the embroidery again. Were those the words of Azuth, or were they Ilstan’s? Or were they Asmodeus’s? Azuth, after all, was dead—dead since the Spellplague almost a century ago. Was it more likely he was alive and mad and trying to murder his purported Chosen or that it was never Azuth at all?

  Dahl would know, she thought. Or at least, Dahl would have something to add, something that might shift all these pieces around in her head into an answer.

  A memory flooded her—Dahl, his arms around her, late, late in the night, mumbling sleepily, “You should be a Harper. Do you want to be a Harper? I wonder if I can convince Tam.”

  Farideh had stirred from the edge of sleep. “Why?”

  “For one, I figure things out faster when I have you to talk to.” He nuzzled the back of her neck. “Besides, for another, you figure out plenty on your own—”

  “I think you have those backward.”

  “See look, you spot what I don’t,” he teased, and he kissed her. “Besides, if you join, we could run missions together. Thwarting blackguards by day. By night …”

  “You’ll run around on more missions?”

  “The exact schedule is not the important part here.”

  “Are you all right?” Kallan asked.

  “Fine,” Farideh said. Dahl was safe, because Dahl wasn’t here. Put him aside. She considered Ilstan’s sleeve again, blew out a breath. “I have to come back here. How long before that wears off?” she asked the guard in Draconic.

  He shrugged. “A few hours. I don’t know. It’s made for Vayemniri and sometimes it hits … the others kind of hard. Except dwarves.” He looked at Kallan, shaking his head. “Karshoji dwarves, sathi. Karshoji dwarves.”

  They thanked the guard and left, winding through the Adjudicators’ enclave, back toward the center of the city. Rescue the Lord of Spells. End the Lady of Black Magic.